Developing Sanity
by IvyXLacrimosa
Summary: Ichigo would never be able to tell the difference between dreams and nightmares . One-Shot


**Title: **Developing Sanity

**Fandom: **Bleach

**Pairing: **None

**Characters: **Ichigo, Hollow Ichigo, Zangetsu

**Words: **3,000 [Approximately]

**Genres: **Psychological, Drama, Action, Angst

**Rated: **T, Language and Strong Scenes

**Summary: **Was there really such a thing as sanity?

**Disclaimer: **Quotes taken from chapters 221 and 139, both spoken by Zaraki Kenpachi

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_"Sanity? Worthless things like that, I never had them for as long as I can remember!"_

* * *

Even though he'd never admit it to anyone, there were times when Kurosaki Ichigo is plagued by nightmares. It's a silly thought to him, that he shakes worse when waking up than when he faces an enemy. His palms sweat, his breaths are heavy, and his veins _buzz _with energy each morning when he wakes up.

Yet it is not with fear, and Ichigo has decided that is what unnerves him the most. It's the fact that he's almost addicted to these nightmares, and the thought of them makes his blood sing with anticipation. It's almost as if he's addicted, and his body craves the next onslaught.

Something in the back of his head, after each nightmare, latches onto his thoughts like a starved leach. It's little, subconscious maybe, but overwhelmingly persuasive and tempting. Lulling him back toward the deep waters his reveries have become, trying to drown him in their greedy depths.

They've tormented him for as long as he can remember—these nightmares. They could have started months before, or maybe even back when he'd seen his first ghost, or possibly his first Hollow. It was ingrained deeply into him, and was a part of his very being.

He wonders, only every once in a while because life is very busy for him, what it would be like to not be dreaming what he dreams. He wonders what it would be like if Soul Society, Hollows, and Shinigami—didn't exist.

He wonders if he could consider himself sane then.

Yet the longer he lives, the more fights he experiences, the more grief and turmoil he tastes, the more he is convinced that his way of thinking is all wrong. People like Zaraki Kenpachi, Kurotsuchi Mayuri, and even Ichigo himself proved that wrong.

Ichigo eventually decided that sanity is not something you are naturally gifted, it is something that you come to terms with as you fight past your natural tendencies. Insanity and instinct naturally dominate you, and without being taught otherwise, without being taught the concept of sanity, you would be left to live by such whims.

Some merely chose to go on untouched by the world's concept of normal, and some are never forced to consider what normal really is.

Once Ichigo realized what the thin line between sanity and insanity was, or rather the _lack _of a line between them, he decided it didn't matter to him one way or another. Questioning it got him nowhere, and dwelling on it caused him even more confusion.

He had things to do, people to protect, battles to fight, and power to gain. Not necessarily in that order.

At least, that was what he told himself as he was wiping the blood off his hands from the scratches he'd made when clenching his fists. He wondered if he'd get scars from constantly making his hands raw and bloody and he wondered if anyone would notice.

He wondered why it was so easy to ignore how bloody his nightmares were. He wondered why he didn't mind it in the first place.

* * *

_"Why don't you just accept it already, Ichigo?! You seek out fights. You desire power. Isn't that right Ichigo? Everyone who searches for power, without exception, searches for battle! Do you fight in order to become more powerful? Or do you want more power so you can fight? I can't tell you that. The only thing I know for sure is guys like us were born to fight, Ichigo! Your instincts will keep leading you toward new battles. It's the only way you have. The only way to become stronger. Fight, Ichigo!"_

* * *

There are many forms his dreams have taken over the years, and they've each showcased different people, different settings, and different fights. Yet, the fights are what they all really seemed to be centered on, bloody and overwhelming. A clash of crimson and steel, burned into his eyelids forever.

In any other circumstance, if he was standing by and watching what was happening on a normal day, he might have laughed, or maybe been disturbed. As it was, he could simply feel anticipation rushing through him again, quicker than the sword before him had imbedded itself through his stomach.

Around him, everything was white. The buildings of his mindscape—which were a common setting for his dreams—the ground, the clouded sky, and even odd drifts of snow that fell softly around him were bleached white. A blank canvas that was as clean as always; a place that was never stained.

His exhalation, a long, shuddering thing that made his body convulse around the sword, formed a haze before his unsteady eyes. Shaking numb fingers wrapped around the blade, icy cold pinpricks greeting his skin when he touched the metal.

Letting his chin drift down towards his chest, he noticed that his skin was bared, and he only wore the bottoms to the customary Shinigami uniform, the top having been slashed into irreparable pieces already. Impishly glinting metal winked at him from its spot just above his navel, disappearing in his skin and making his body burn like ice was entering his blood.

Yet the bright red that poured down his skin was like fire, carving a slow, merciless path down his skin and staining his clothes. When his fingertips, still wrapped around the blade that had skewered him, touched it, it was as if he'd dipped his fingers into melted rock, and he hissed at the sensation.

Through it all though, he was smiling, something wide and pleased, and disturbingly similar to the smile returned at him. It curled his lips so far it was painful, and Ichigo could feel that adrenaline induced energy beginning to bubble up at him.

"King's a bit of a masochist," his opponent sang, wrist flicking so that the katana impaling Ichigo twisted his insides further. Threads of heat—pain—laced through the cold Ichigo felt, and he shivered again. He raised his head to meet curiously pleased white eyes surrounded by a sea of black.

He saw his own face, though black and white, staring back at him, a toothy grin on his face. His Hollow, suddenly wrenched his arm back, pulling the inverted version of Tensa Zangetsu out of the orange haired boy. Ichigo wobbled a bit, bright red flowing freely down both his stomach and back and staining the white floor below with erratic splatters.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Ichigo's hand, cut from where the violent retreat had shaken it off, rested on his own blade automatically. His fingers curled around the grip, and he drew the sword out easily, leveling it in front of him as he watched his Hollow counterpart grin wider. His breathing was ragged, but not with pain. Anticipation, a heady _need_ of some kind, was weaving deep into his soul and coaxing out a monster different from the one standing in front of him.

"Or maybe you're a sadist, I can't really make up my mind," his head tilted to the side, white hair shifting around eyes that glowed with bloodlust. They studied him closely, and that maniacal grin sharpened into a speculative smirk. A throaty chuckle escaped the Hollow, "Either way, King's always more fun in his dreams. Not as much of a pussy as usual."

Ichigo rose from his slumped position, shoulders straightening and cracking as if he was made of ice. His neck popped when he lifted his head and looked down his nose at his Hollow. If he were to look at himself, he would likely see eyes with oversized pupils, and a face with an intense countenance that would scare most away.

Yet he didn't care. Even with blood staining his hands, his _soul_, wounds covering his skin, his body, he felt nothing if not alive. That ice had fled his blood, and he felt hot, as if every bit of snow that came near him was melting, as if the air around him was buzzing.

His own Reiatsu, a mix of Hollow, Shinigami, human, and who knew what else, rose and rolled around him like a tide, tossing him in its undertow. Like magnets, his sword moved, clashed with a beautiful keen against his Hollow's copy. The sound was like a symphony to him, and chills crept up his spine.

Like most time's he dreamed, his vision is sporadic, something that fluctuates and flashes with reds and grays, burning through the monochrome world that is his mind. He paints it—creating something without boundaries, separation, or logic. He watches as those curiously uncertain thoughts—_why, how, is this normal?_—flee his mind like a frantic bird, leaving behind something empty and peaceful.

His skin burns as his Hollow's Zangetsu halts at his shoulder, colliding with his collarbone with a grinding sound. It was stone against stone, painting his sight a warm welcoming red again. Fire burns through him, satisfaction accompanying the pain as he uses this pause to his advantage, piercing through his counterparts shoulder.

Yes, this is peace to him.

Each strike, block, movement, attack, they were all wild and uninhibited. He was not weighed down by consequences his fight might have. He was battling himself, and even if he always had new scars whenever he came back, they never showed on his body when he woke up.

Some part of him was almost disappointed at that.

He watched as red poured out over his Hollows trashed clothing, rips and tears and dark red streaks marring the once pristine fabric. Pulling back his black Tensa Zangetsu, Ichigo watched closely, licking his lips.

Sweat created a sheen on his skin, and his posture was slowly becoming more relaxed, more comfortable, and his fighting style followed suit. Rationality was thrown out the window as long powerful strikes were delivered, and the concept of dodging was thrown out the window. He never fought like this in real life, when he needed to _win_ and not _fight_.

Those two things are, after all, completely different and unrelated.

He fought blindly, cut and being slashed at. Rampaging and throwing blows without thinking about anything. He was simply living, and it was a wonderful feeling. It poked at every stressed knot in his neck and bruised patch of skin from former injuries healing.

Something about that pain, the soreness, was absolutely wonderful. His ears buzzed with it, and he was sure he was mirroring the look on his opponent's face: a grin filled with freedom, instinct, insanity.

When he licks his dry lips again, he catches the metallic taste of blood, sharp and overwhelming. It lingers on his taste buds, and Ichigo wonders if he'd been cut or blood had just splattered on his face. He doesn't really care either way.

He's too preoccupied by the red world coming to life around them.

Blood stains both of them, covers the ground they step on, and drips from their blades slowly— as if made from molasses. Ichigo isn't so sure why the sight pleases him so much, but he doesn't really care.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

A soft sigh echoes from him, and little convulsions rake through his body every time the snow—still falling rather neatly and consistently from the sky—touches his burning skin. It's still bright, pure white, untainted by the battle ensuing around it. His eyes close, and his head tips back as he sighs again, the cool air like heaven on his skin.

His entire boy seizes as he feels a blade bury itself in its stomach again, and some rational part of him points out that he should have passed out from blood loss long ago, even if it was in his inner world. The thought was almost whimsical.

Ichigo's breath hitched, when he felt the hot breath of a chuckle trace over his face. Pulling his eyes, crusted with drying blood, open, he stared into a white gaze. "King's so fucking difficult most of the time," his Hollow mumbled, his blade twisting around and being pulled out violently. "But he can be damn fun to play with too."

Rocking back on his heels, Ichigo's hand, arm, body, move on their own, pulling back and tensing as he prepared to pierce through his Hollow's chest. The white being made no move to retreat, and a knowing smirk twisted his lips, and he watched Ichigo smugly.

Just as the orange-haired boy went to deliver what would have been a building demolishing blow, a cool hand locked around his wrist. Gentle, cold, and unwavering. With unseeing eyes, Ichigo continued to try and swing, as if his wrist hadn't been caught in an iron grasp.

It wasn't until another hand touched his back lightly between his shoulder blades that he realized he'd been stopped. His eyes widened, and he blinked once, and then twice. The tension seemed to drain out of him, and it felt as if every muscle and joint in his body loosened and disintegrated at once, forcing him to lean back shakily on the figure behind him.

An arm settled easily on his lower back as pale nimble fingers pried his Zanpakutō from his fingers and pulling it away from him. "That is enough for now Ichigo," the familiar, calm tenor murmured, and the sword disappeared from sight.

Letting his head weakly turn and rest on his shoulder, Ichigo was greeted with a knowing steel-colored gaze. Tensa Zangetsu smiled lightly at him, eyes seeming too wise for his youthful face. The gentleness of the expression had Ichigo relaxing even further.

Fire and adrenaline faded into comfortable warmth that had Ichigo feeling more lethargic than anything, and he murmured some sort of incoherent reply that earned him a chuckle from his Zanpakutō, and it rumbled through his bloodied torso soothingly.

"Lame," his Hollow yawned as if to mock the suddenly drowsy Ichigo, and the Substitute Shinigami turned to glare at his Inner Hollow. The white copy was sitting on the ground languidly, and it contrasted greatly to the bloodied red background he was seated in. "Ya' always have to go and interrupt at the good parts, don't ya' you bastard?"

Yet despite the rude and irritated words, the tone they were delivered in was contented—serene even. The white Zangetsu strewn across his lap, now back in its Shikai form, glinted brightly, not a drop of blood in sight on the metal.

Ichigo blinked once, and when his eyes were open again, everything was back to normal. The blood was gone, their clothes were repaired, and the red was all gone. Wounds were healed, and snow fell lightly around them, creating a cold and quiet atmosphere.

"You were both more than satisfied with that fight," Zangetsu scolded quietly, voice like water compared to the fire Ichigo had felt earlier. His head was light, and he felt like one wrong move and he'd fall apart.

Yet it was a pleasant feeling, and the orange haired boy felt more in control of himself and his thoughts than he had before. He felt—

_Sane_.

Slumping over so that his head was dropped onto Zangetsu's shoulder and neck, Ichigo felt his eyes grow heavy. "Besides," his Zanpakutō pointed out softly, noticing that his wielder was slowly surrendering to the fatigue that had set in quickly. "It will merely begin again tomorrow. Just be patient."

A snort answered, and the grating voice of his Hollow met his ears. Ichigo was surprised to realize that his eyes had already drifted shut. "Yeah, I guess King and I can start again tomorrow."

"You know you always do," the black-haired sprit sighed, shifting so Ichigo slumped more easily on him. The fondness in Zangetsu's voice and the easy banter lulled Ichigo further into a true, dreamless sleep.

"What else do you expect?"

"Absolutely nothing."

Sometimes, Ichigo wonders if his palms started bleeding before, during, or after the typical fight he has with his Hollow in his dreams. He wonders why he feels so light after fighting, why it's so easy to act within those limits that the word 'sanity' has set for him. He wonders if anyone notices—besides Kenpachi of course—the way his eyes sometimes light up during a fight, like he's about to let go of his control.

If everyone has those same instincts, or even a tiny piece of them are similar to his, Ichigo wonders how they can so easily act as if some part of them doesn't crave the challenge.

Do all have such a precarious—_wonderful_—balance within themselves? If one pushed hard enough, would they snap and revert, or lose all instinct? Have they beaten it out of themselves to find something more passive to make them content?

_(Ichigo himself is not without these things; during times he spends with his family and friends the dreams lessen. He can go weeks without them at times and still not feel the stress and strain from the lack of freedom. It's an odd thing, the timing the dreams have, but he always succumbs to them willingly.)_

Still though, if one considers it long enough, they might find that things that trouble them aren't entirely unfamiliar. That is to say, one moment something could be troublesome, and the next it as familiar to you as your own shadow, something you couldn't imagine living without. Ichigo and his relationship with his Hollow are no exception, though the Substitute Shinigami is almost certain that bond is a fickle and singular one.

Sometimes, Ichigo wonders why his inner world can so easily be thrown into rampant turmoil and then clean itself just as quickly. Like his mind just sucks up every gash and wave of destruction like they're sunlight. He thinks about the satisfaction of a well dealt blow, and how the color red fascinates him at times. He thinks about battles, and rematches and calculations. He thinks, _I want to redo that_, or possibly even_, that was something I want to do again._

Despite the natural protectiveness that he feels for his friends, comrades, and family, he knows that if he was alone, he'd have done things a little differently. He wouldn't have to think about protecting, defending, saving. He could simply fight, and fight, and _fight, and fight—_

It is sometimes too easy to think about the way he could destroy, and rampage, and dismember and _break_. He think about why it bothers him that it doesn't bother him—_is it normal to think like this?_—and he thinks about the way ending a life doesn't seem to bother him.

Those thoughts build and muddle his mind, until he dreams again, and goes through that cycle again. Letting loose and simply, _instinctively_ fighting burns those thoughts, uses them as fuel and then leaves room for new thoughts to grow.

_What if I didn't dream like this?_

That speculation was the most common, but never would he ever think about a different concept. The most important—or possibly the most disturbing thought, was something that he never really noticed. It was a habit, an acceptance, and the key clue to his inquires.

_When had he stopped considering those insane nightmares typical dreams?_

When had he accepted the fact that some nights he'd run wild in his own mind, tearing things apart and being torn apart? When had he stopped considering, _I'm going insane_, and pondered, _what is sanity?_

Invisible lines were made to be crossed, not pondered on.

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**_A/N:_**What the hell did I just write? Dear god I'm so confused. Anyway, leave a review on the way out~


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